Chapter 196: If a Feast Is Prepared for You, Shouldn't You at Least Taste It?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 196: If a Feast Is Prepared for You, Shouldn't You at Least Taste It?
They built a simple fire and hung a pot over the flames.
Since it was a meal in the field, nothing grand could be served. Their rations consisted of dried meat, fruit, cheese, and water cut with wine. Everyone ate and drank in relative silence.
While tearing off pieces of the seasoned jerky he had brought, Encrid noticed a gaze fixed intently on him. It was the beastman.
Is she hungry?
Seeing the longing in her eyes, she looked absolutely famished. Come to think of it, she likely hadn't had a proper meal since her capture. Whether they intended to kill her or set her free later, it was only right to feed her now.
Perhaps because of her hunger, a faint light shimmered in her eyes—a golden hue.
There’s no need to be stingy.
It was just a piece of jerky, after all.
Encrid tore off a strip and sat before her. When he pressed it against her lips, her eyes widened in surprise.
"Eat."
Dunchabel chewed. The harmony of salty and sweet flavors spreading through her mouth stimulated her brain. As she ate, she studied the man before her. Having observed him repeatedly, a feeling akin to admiration had begun to take root, transcending her initial envy and jealousy.
If only I... like this man...
What if she had lived her life with such diligence?
She felt a simple sense of envy. Having such incredible subordinates at his side had to be a stroke of luck. If only that luck had found her instead. Why was she born this way? Why was she born to be abandoned?
It would have been fine if she had simply remained marginalized. She could have risked her life for her village. How wonderful would it have been to die that way—to depart into Kriemhild's embrace?
Regret, jealousy, admiration, and remorse.
At the end of these complex emotions, the jerky was finally swallowed. As she finished, he held a canteen to her lips. She expected water mixed with wine, but the refreshing scent of apples filled her mouth instead.
"It's apple wine."
Why was he treating her like this? Dunchabel wondered if he was trying to seduce her, but she couldn't be sure.
It was a moment of choice. A crossroads. Should she speak, or should she remain silent?
Dunchabel made her decision.
"There will be an ambush by the Black Sword."
With seasoning still smeared around her mouth, Dunchabel spoke the warning. She had planned to explain the markings if he asked how she knew, but Encrid merely looked her straight in the eye.
"I see," he said simply.
Dunchabel expected Encrid to make a move, but he remained surprisingly quiet. He simply went back to his meal, tossing a few words toward the noble who served as the Black Sword’s lackey.
"How do you know the way?"
Acting as an envoy for the Black Sword Bandits and knowing the secret paths were two different matters. Encrid brought up the one detail even Marcus hadn't bothered to pry into.
Vansento curled his lip. With a sneer that anyone could recognize, he spat, "There is no need for you to know, commoner."
Was appending "commoner" to every sentence a habit of his? For someone so obsessed with status, he didn't seem like much of a grand noble himself. Regardless, Encrid nodded, accepting the non-answer. That wasn't the important part, anyway.
Encrid shifted his gaze to the Black-Clad Guard. He had been observing the man’s gait, hand gestures, attitude, and positioning. He had seen him a few times back in the territory, but out here, the truth became clear.
He should be decent.
Rem, Ragna, Sachsen, Audin, and even the Elf Company Commander—lately, Encrid had more than enough sparring partners, but none of them gave off this specific vibe. This man’s feet would be light, and his hands would be fast. He likely favored short weapons and possessed excellent throwing skills.
Half of Encrid’s mind wanted to see the opponent's unique techniques; the other half felt a subtle, growing thirst. Sparring was sparring, but real combat was something else entirely. Watching the man chew his bread and sip his water, a single thought arose.
I want to fight him.
The man's natural movements piqued Encrid’s interest. How far will my swordsmanship work against him? What should I keep in mind? How can I keep up with his footwork?
Encrid was no genius. Simply looking at someone didn't grant him an immediate countermeasure. However, because he had spent hundreds—perhaps thousands—of hours sparring, he could devise a response based on pure experience.
If I slash his thigh...
His feet would freeze. That would seal his greatest advantage. From the moment he caught a glimpse of the guard's habits, Encrid had wanted to test him.
Perhaps the guard felt that gaze.
"You're annoying," the Black-Clad Guard said, raising his head after finishing his meager meal.
Encrid, meeting his gaze, asked, "Me?"
"Who else?"
A strange tension brushed between them. While one radiated a subtle fighting spirit, the other displayed pure malice and displeasure. The guard sat with his hands clasped over his knees under the shade of a broad tree.
Amidst the sound of the two horses grazing on the grass and the refreshing summer breeze, the guard spoke again.
"This is the stage of life where one's confidence in their own skills is at its peak."
Encrid inwardly agreed. Lately, he had been feeling something that could indeed be called confidence.
"But you must be careful," the guard continued. "And you must choose your opponents wisely."
That was also true.
"Aren't you just at the Special Class level of that paltry Soldier Grading System?"
...That, however, was not true.
"You shouldn't risk your life on something stupid, should you?"
The condescension wasn't new to Encrid. When had anyone not looked down on him? It had happened countless times. Moreover, Krais had warned him before they left: “Marcus tends to hide your achievements, Captain. It seems he has something in mind.”
Because his records were suppressed, it was understandable that the opponent would underestimate him. Arrogance was a trait foreign to Encrid, but he did feel a flicker of disappointment.
His eye for talent is lacking.
Encrid had recognized his opponent's strength, but the opponent had failed to see his. In truth, it was only natural. Encrid had crawled his way up from the very bottom. He lacked the flashy habits of those who gained strength overnight. He possessed only the fierce intensity of one who had survived a thousand defeats. To an outsider, he merely looked like a decently skilled soldier.
"What a load of absolute bullshit," Rem muttered, watching the exchange.
Hearing Rem's voice, the noble Vansento chimed in. "Shut your mouth, you pathetic barbarian. Are you showing off that you were raised without a mother?"
The vile insult stabbed at Rem like a blade. Encrid realized it was too late to stop him. In fact, he decided this was about enough anyway.
*
The Black-Clad Guard had intended to simply talk them down. In any case, it would all be over after another half-day of travel. They were all going to die at the hands of the Black Sword ambushers waiting ahead. Originally, he had thought of dealing with them himself, but...
One guy would be fine, but...
If he had to face Rem and Ragna at the same time, it would be a problem. He wanted to avoid that. Someone like Encrid didn't even register as a threat. The guard was one of the top members of the Black Sword in terms of skill, trained by an elite master.
It was at that moment.
"Shut your mouth, you pathetic barbarian. Are you showing off that you were raised without a mother?"
Vansento spat his usual venom. Encrid should have stopped Rem, but there wasn't a second to spare.
Whoosh—THUD!
The sound of something cutting the air was followed by a heavy, gruesome impact. The guard’s head snapped toward the noise. He struggled to process the scene.
"Kuh, krr..."
A man with an axe blade buried in his face cannot speak. That was a simple fact of nature. Survival was impossible. Even a ghoul would die if its skull was split vertically like that. Between the cloven bone, gray matter spilled out, and blood gushed in a torrent. The force of the impact had popped an eyeball from its socket; it rolled uselessly onto the grass.
Blown back several steps by the momentum, the figure collapsed. Vansento—member of the Black Sword, envoy, and noble—was now a corpse.
"Man, that bastard sure had a foul mouth," Rem muttered, dusting off his hands.
"What—what is the meaning of this?!" the guard shouted, leaping to his feet in shock.
The horses tied to the carriage whinnied in alarm at the sudden violence. Dunchabel gaped, her jaw dropping.
They killed a noble?
They had barely left the sight of the Border Guard, yet the envoy they were supposed to escort was dead—slain by the very men hired to protect him.
"Ah, he did it," Encrid observed, his tone flat and plain.
"He did it? You crazy bastards!" the guard yelled.
The guard wasn't very quick-witted, or so Encrid thought. Ragna, meanwhile, remained indifferent. He merely looked at Encrid and asked, "Are you going to handle him alone?"
"I'd like to."
"Do as you wish."
Rem strolled over and wrenched his axe from the corpse with a wet plop. Beneath him lay Vansento, a piece of trash who had gorged himself on the Black Sword's gold. Why had they waited this long to kill him? Because he was a noble. Even a non-hereditary baronetcy was a shield. By doing this, Rem would be hunted for the rest of his life, yet he had taken the gamble without hesitation.
The guard’s mind raced. "What are you looking at? Want me to put an ornament in your head too?" Rem asked, locking eyes with him.
"He's mine," Encrid claimed, showing a rare flash of greed.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Otherwise, I would've sliced him up already." Rem wiped the blood off his axe onto Vansento’s silk clothes while the noble's limbs were still twitching.
Watching this, the guard spoke, his voice trembling slightly. "This is still the Border Guard's patrol area. What if a patrol passes by?"
"They won't come," Encrid replied flatly. He knew the patrol schedules perfectly; he had heard everything from Vengeance, the patrol captain.
"They won't come?"
Only then did the guard realize this wasn't an impulsive act. Was this their plan from the start?
With a sharp shring, Encrid drew his sword. The blade caught the sunlight, scattering gleams of light across the clearing. Seeing the tip pointed at him, the guard drew his own weapons: two black daggers, pulled silently from their sheaths.
Holding them in a reverse grip, the guard reflexively took a combat stance. Reinforcements are half a day away. He had to forget about the dead noble and find a way to survive.
Encrid said he would face him alone. Rem and Ragna didn't even seem interested in helping.
I'll settle this in a single clash and run.
He was confident in his speed. To escape, he needed to make a move.
"You knew the patrol wouldn't come. You planned this?"
Encrid shrugged. "As long as no one sees, right?"
As he spoke, the guard shifted his feet, trying to put the sun at his back. Encrid adjusted his positioning instantly. The guard reached his desired spot, with the carriage to his right rear. He tossed one of his daggers into the air.
Encrid reflexively raised his sword. While Encrid prepared for a lunge, the guard flicked his right hand. In a blur of motion, two throwing knives flew backward. It was a masterful distraction—tossing the primary weapon to draw the eyes up, then striking from the waist.
Thwip!
The two knives buried themselves deep into the necks of the horses. The animals shrieked in agony, collapsing as blood sprayed the grass. The guard calculated that without horses, they couldn't pursue him. All that remained was to clear the man blocking his path.
Catching the falling dagger with a sharp clack, the guard dropped into a low crouch and exploded forward. He closed the distance at a terrifying speed, entering sword range in an instant. It was a common maxim that long weapons held the advantage, but once the distance was closed, the short blade reigned supreme.
Got him.
With absolute certainty, the guard slashed with his crossed daggers. The staggered timing of the strikes targeted Encrid's wrist and neck simultaneously.
Encrid deflected the first blade with his metal wrist guard. He dodged the strike aimed at his neck by tilting his head back with a hair's breadth of clearance. It was a feat born of cold precision and perfect timing.
From that position, Encrid drove his knee upward. The guard, having closed in too tight, had no room to maneuver. He hastily raised his own knee to block.
Thud!
"Ugh!" the guard gasped. What kind of strength is this? Even with the block, his shin throbbed with bone-deep pain.
But Encrid wasn't finished. For a split second, he seemed to vanish from the guard's line of sight. Sensing a sharp presence from the side, the guard ducked instinctively.
Whoosh.
The broad-bladed Guard Sword grazed the guard's hair, sending severed strands fluttering into the air. Without a moment to breathe, the guard thrust both daggers forward.
Whoosh!
The blades sliced through empty air. He couldn't even perceive Encrid's next move. It was a heavy strike, swinging downward like a scythe using the forearm for leverage.
Smack! THUD!
The blow struck the guard squarely on the back of the head. His forehead slammed into the dirt. Without hesitation, Encrid pointed his sword downward and drove it home.
Squelch!
When he pulled the blade out, having carved a second mouth into the base of the man's skull, a fountain of blood erupted. Encrid stepped back and flicked his sword, scattering the red droplets onto the earth.
"You don't look too happy. Wasn't it fun?" Rem asked.
Encrid answered honestly. "It was too bland."
The man's speed was slower than the Gnoll Leader's. His tactical wit was inferior to the Evil Spirit of the Magic Sword. He hadn't shown a single flash of brilliance. While he was better than the beastman, he wasn't vastly superior. It left Encrid with the lingering, unpleasant sensation of leaving a bathroom without wiping.
"What was your name again?" Encrid asked. He wasn't looking at his companions.
The beastman answered softly. "Dunchabel."
Staring into her startled golden eyes, Encrid asked with a tinge of lingering regret, "How many are in the ambushing force?"
If a feast is prepared for you, shouldn't you at least taste it?
Encrid was entirely serious. Dunchabel realized she no longer had a choice. These men were utterly insane.
"It will be a small, elite force," she said. "Since they are coming with intent, they won't have sent anyone weak."
Encrid didn't smile, but his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Rem smirked, and Ragna simply stared at Encrid before speaking.
"Why did you let him close the distance?"
"To make him let his guard down."
"Not bad."
They never seemed to tire of it; even standing over two fresh corpses, they spoke only of swordsmanship. The fact that they didn't care in the slightest about having murdered a noble was what made the scene truly absurd.